


you just need to breathe to feel my heart against yours now

by quidhitch



Series: i found a way to let you in, but i never really had a doubt [1]
Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: M/M, Marriage, not yet. but we r setting the scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 19:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16687906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidhitch/pseuds/quidhitch
Summary: Tony Stark doesn’t believe in marriage. It’s nobody’s fault. —Well, it’s Howard's fault, probably, but Tony doesn’t like to think about that for too long, finds that it dredges up all sorts of issues he’d rather keep buried under a mountain of strategically employed sarcasm, humorous self-deprecation, and the occasionally effective substance abuse.





	you just need to breathe to feel my heart against yours now

Tony Stark doesn’t believe in marriage. It’s nobody’s fault. —Well, it’s Howard's fault, probably, but Tony doesn’t like to think about that for too long, finds that it dredges up all sorts of issues he’d rather keep buried under a mountain of strategically employed sarcasm, humorous self-deprecation, and the occasionally effective substance abuse.

Anyways — however he came to possess said ideology, it was a staple in the part of his brain he’d dubbed the Love And Relationships corner. The first twenty-four years of his life he’d said no, no, no, not even if I was the father, not even if we were the last sexy people on earth. The only time that mentality had faltered, even for a moment, was about two years into his relationship with Pepper when he’d thought maybe. But of course he’d royally screwed that up.

Or all the powers of the universe came together to aid him in royally screwing that up; he’s still not sure what happened there, really. In any case, he’d gone back to the story that had actually worked for him: just not gonna happen for me, lifelong bachelor, Penthouse for one.

And then he’d met Steve.

When Tony thinks about meeting Steve, it has nothing to do with their first interaction. As far as Tony’s concerned, he met Steve three months into their professional relationship, when, at one of their press briefings, conservative pundit Franklin O'Reilly started hounding Steve about how he doesn’t show enough regard for American lives, how he’s always championing minority causes, how he’s constantly getting involved in “foreign matters” even though he’s supposed to be “Captain America”.

And Steve had said, blue fire blazing hot in his eyes, “Why should I only care about Americans?”

O'Reilly's barely visible eyebrows drew together in sudden surprise. “Excuse me?”

Steve didn't even flinch. “I don’t pick up the shield for people just ‘cause we have the same kind of passport.”

Tony has only seen a pressroom go completely hear-a-pin-drop quiet three times in his life: first, when Obie released Stark Industries’ official statement on the tragic and sudden deaths of Howard and Maria Stark, second, when he told the world he was Iron Man, and third, when Captain America said ‘why should I give a fuck about America?’

O’Reilly turned beet red, got this funny look on his face, then started stumbling, trying to form some kind of intelligent response. Steve cut him off cleanly and cooly.

“To engage in conditional compassion, to only honor the service of people who look and think like you do, is the most un-American thing I could do. America is only meaningful as an ideal, as a standard of equality and kindness that we have to fight to achieve every single day.” He’d shaken his head and let out a frustrated huff, like he couldn’t quite believe he needed to have this conversation with somebody. “You can go on thinking I’m an affront to American values, Mr. O’Reilly. I’ve never fought for people like you. I don’t like bullies, especially bullies who don red, white, and blue.”

Nobody breathed, in that room, not for several, dragging minutes. Pepper ushered them out of the briefing hall, Steve endured a lecture about going off-script during conferences, someone stuck him in a cab on a one-way trip back to his apartment to wait out the inevitable media storm. And, even as the rest of the world pushed forward, Tony stayed stuck, breath still caught in his throat, admiration still frozen in his chest.

He doesn’t even know how to describe it, really. Something changed. Something that made Tony realize the urgency of protecting Steve, of protecting his idealized America, of fighting for it with him, even when they disagreed, maybe especially when they did.

He hadn’t fallen in love with Steve, then. He’d just known he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him.

Of course, he’d initially thought it was in a professional, patriotic, do-gooding kind of context, the sexy stuff came much, much later, but still. The sentiment still held. Tony believed in lifelong commitment again, even if it didn’t bear the same branding certain traditionalists would say it should.

But that didn’t matter to Steve anyway — and why would it, after all his tirades against people who put ceremony over substance. The thoroughness with which Tony loved him, the promises they made to each other in the rare and quiet moments of privacy their crazy lives afforded — that had been enough. Steve always said that was more than enough.

And Tony believed him.

Until he found the ring.

* * *

Tony’s initial reaction — to the surprise of exactly zero of the thirteen therapists he’d scared off in the last decade — is to panic.

“Friday?” he says hollowly, staring with growing dread at the little velvet box situated amongst Steve’s neatly folded underwear.

“Yes, Boss?”

“Book a flight to Hawaii.”

“You can’t go to Hawaii tonight, Boss. You have dinner plans with Captain Rogers.”

 _Oh god_ , Tony thinks. _Oh god, oh god, oh god. Is he proposing tonight? What if he’s proposing tonight?_

And then Tony— well, he has some sort of stroke, probably, that’s really the only logical explanation for the… for the cooking. Which he can’t stop once he starts, he’s pulling ingredients out of the fridge and he’s making pasta and he’s telling Friday to have someone deliver him pasta sauce because he’s a fucking billionaire whose never had to learn how to make it from scratch.

And he’s just sitting there, watching the stuff bubbling in the pot, and he has this out of body experience where he wonders what the fuck he’s going to say when Steve proposes. And while he’s trying to construct an answer that both his heart and head are happy with, the pasta starts fucking burning. So he grabs the handle to take it off the stove but he forgets that it’s hot, hot enough that it burns him and he throws it on the ground. And now there’s still steaming, slightly charred pasta all over the hardwood and Tony is standing in the middle of it with angry red welts forming along the line of his palm.

Steve comes home and finds him like that, just staring at his own hand like an idiot while the fire alarm goes off persistently in the background.

It’s a bad look.

It’s definitely not the kind of look that makes a man want to propose.

But Steve, goddamn Steve, just makes his way behind the kitchen counter with this amused little smile on his face, presses a kiss to Tony’s cheek, and says “oh, sweetheart. You cooked.”

Which makes Tony try to weakly slap one of Steve’s boobs, but that’s actually a lot more painful for him because of the fresh burns on his hand, so the prospect of dinner is abandoned entirely until he gets a little medical attention.

“You found the ring,” Steve guesses, barely even looking up from where he’s spreading aloe vera across the expanse of Tony’s palm.

Tony swallows around a bone-dry throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“That’s not how I wanted you to see it.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Steve sighs and sets down the q-tip, reaching for Tony’s non-injured hand and brushing a kiss across his knuckles. “It’s okay. _I’m_ sorry it scared you.”

“Steve,” Tony says — desperately, because the thought of losing this man, the thought of burning food for literally anyone else for the rest of eternity, is suddenly too much to bear. “Steve, I love you. I love you more than I love anything else in the world. I just don’t know if I’m—“

“—the marrying kind,” Steve smiles, and there’s not a hint of resentment or disappointment in it. He reaches out to cup Tony’s cheek, to run his fingers through the soft hair that frames his temple. “I know. And I promise you, Tony, I don’t need that. I saw the ring while I was running errands in Brooklyn, and it made me think of you. I bought it just in case. I bought because, if at any point in your life, marriage becomes something you want, I’d like to be prepared to give that to you.”

Steve leans over to kiss his forehead, then pulls back to fix Tony with an expression so understanding that, if there was still shrapnel in Tony’s heart, it’d probably just turn to cotton candy and melt right away. “I love you. I will always love you. And marriage doesn’t actually matter, because it won’t make that more or less meaningful.”

“Okay,” Tony says, because what the hell else do you say to that? Is a blowjob the right response? Would Steve accept an affectionate, care-taking blowjob right now?

“I have a question, though.” Steve adds, voice settling into something milder, more amused.

“Yeah?”

He glances at Tony through thick blonde lashes, mouth tipping into a crooked smile. “Why on earth were you cooking?”

Tony splutters. “I was trying to be domestic! Like, husband material!”

“Yeah right, Tony Stark. You were trying to give me food poisoning."

“Slander!”

“Probably ‘cause you thought if I spent the night in the E.R., I’d be too tired to propose for another forty-eight hours.”

“ _Oh my god._ ”

“In which time you’d have booked a one-way ticket to Fiji.”

Tony’s in a losing fight against a smile as he claps his uninjured palm over Steve’s mouth, “Hawaii, you asshole. Though I’m starting to think it wouldn’t be far enough away from your high-and-mighty eyebrows.”

Steve pulls Tony’s hand away and kisses him, chaste and teasing, though there’s something softer hidden in it. “We’ll look into Guam real estate in the morning. Now it’s time for bed.” He pushes onto his feet, used q-tips and bandages pinked up with blood clasped loosely in his fingers.

 _Oh,_ Tony thinks, watching him accidentally drop them into the recycling bin, realize his mistake, then freak out and nearly knock the whole thing over in his attempt to fish them back out. _Oh. That’s my husband._

**Author's Note:**

> i have wips i should be working on rip. but more marriage content to come. pls distract me on tumblr @ quidhitch


End file.
